


Hitch Me To Your Buggy and Drive Me Like a Mule

by BlossomTime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corsetry, D/s, F/M, M/M, OT3, Oral Sex, foot worship, kebabs eaten, sickness coped with, write the happy poly family you want to see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomTime/pseuds/BlossomTime
Summary: Scheduling adult sexy time in a family with three working adults and a baby is hard. In which Mary and Mycroft enjoy D/s while John is just happy they're happy.





	

Mary had a lot of favorite parts about an afternoon scene with Mycroft. 

They got a break from the unending list of things that needed to be done in their little family, Mary, John, Mycroft, and John and Mary's baby. Taking care of a house, as lucky as they were to be able to afford a house in London. Could there be a better advertisement for being a three-income family? But houses are houses and they fall apart bit by bit unless you stay on top of everything. Never ending laundry. Juggling everyone's work schedules and child care and scrabbling to carve out time to spend to take care of their own hearts and each others'. This afternoon was courtesy of the miracle of the two of them each being able to take a half-day off from work while the baby spent the whole day at child care, to be picked up, along with dinner from a kebab shop, by John when he was done with work. 

A quiet house, a quiet bedroom, clean sheets-- what luxury. Mary wore clothing she could never wear in any other context. A white silk-blend blouse that could never be worn within spitting or food-flinging distance of the baby. A black pencil skirt too form-fitting to wear to work without drawing a great deal of unwanted patient attention to her bum. Her favorite boots, just knee-high, square heel, black leather, nothing special unless you knew that she'd had to give up every pair of nice shoes when her feet gained a size after childbirth. She was down to her nurse clogs and a pair of trainers that had seen better days. Boots would never have been the first on her list of shoes to save up for. 

She had insisted on a sort of gift nonproliferation treaty when they'd all moved in together. She wanted them all to be equals, equally important and equally valued. So Mycroft's habit of buying her or John perfect little things that later turned out to cost as much as a car payment had to stop, not least because she could never hope to buy him anything remotely as nice. Mycroft had switched from expense to thoughtfulness and would leave Dairy Milk bars in her purse when she was feeling particularly stressed. But he had made the case that the boots were for him, not a gift, strictly selfish, to set the mood, so she let him buy them and he let her veto a few of the more expensive selections. And if Mary should wear them outside a scene, he would never say a word. 

Mycroft, as usual, was overthinking things. Not surprising, as this was essentially both his job and his personal history. Not about being in a poly triad, that was no one's business. Liking D/s, liking power exchange, not something he worried about. As far as anyone could tell, that sort of thing was a roll of the die, so did it even matter if it was nature or nurture? The corset, however. He still had to struggle with the part of his mind that hissed that if anyone should find out, if anyone should know, the whispers and jokes would never end. So he justified it to himself a hundred ways. Wearing it was harmless, he wasn't hurting anyone. Being concerned about gendered clothing was ridiculous and regressive. 

What always brought him back was the feel of it. It was a bone-deep embrace. It quieted his racing thoughts. It was like a switch for his parasympathetic nervous system, it let him let go of the low-level fight-or-flight that was like the dark shadow of his ability to observe. His brainstem had decided that taking in so much of his surroundings at all times meant he was under threat, meant he got little spikes of adrenaline throughout his day, making his heart race and his belly churn. Being bound, by his corset especially, let his breathing slow, let him feel safe. 

Knowing he would be, or even that he _could_ be, alone with Mary, knowing she would take ages to lace him up while a syrupy warmth, a looseness, spread to every muscle in his body, that was enough to calm him, hours or even days before it would happen. Calm enough that he didn't even hesitate to leave an inbox of urgent requests behind when noon came. 

Mycroft wore his corset and not much else. It was a beautiful indigo with tiny pink rosebuds picked out in the fabric, the sole frivolity in an otherwise quite serious garment. It was steel-boned, no frills on the edges, no garters attached, laces that could be pulled punishingly tight but rarely were. The process of getting him into it was another of Mary's favorite bits. It cleared her mind, doing it up, allowed her to gradually tune herself to Mycroft's reactions: tiny changes in breathing, pulse, the temperature of his skin, the tenor of his movements. Once it was on it made him impossibly longer and slimmer than he already was, making him seem ten feet tall and as slight as a willow switch. It made her feel powerful, feel that she could bend him any way she wished. 

She bound him, winding around his ankles, then wrists, again and again. She did this slowly and deliberately, a charge of energy growing in her core, a warmth that filled her belly. She slid her finger along the underside of the ropes, carefully ensuring circulation, seeing that nothing would pinch. Mycroft's eyelashes fluttered, the first sign of him dipping down into his compliment to her own growing power. How do you explain what it feels like, to love someone so much you will take power from them? To have someone love you so much they give you that power? The very taste of that exchange, she could feel it all over her skin. She'd tried to explain it to John, after finding how compatible she and Mycroft were in this way. John never really got it, but was happy that they were happy, and was happy that the two of them could have a different sort of connection to him. 

Aside from the philosophical, the alchemical aspect of it, Mycroft struggles gorgeously once his bonds are complete. She licks a broad stripe across his bare chest and growls low into his ear, "You. Are. Mine." Mary straddles his hips, runs her newly-painted deep-red nails across his shoulders and tells Mycroft in a very matter-of-fact way what she wants of him, how she wishes to use him, use his body. She is now Miss, he is now boy. He whimpers, holds his lower lip between his teeth and bucks his now-hard cock into the fabric of her skirt spread taut over him. 

Then the room starts to spin.

Mary lets out a gust of a breath and falls heavily onto her hands. She feels quite cold all of a sudden. "Mary?" Mycroft says, sounding worried. 

"Red light," she says, as she tips over and has to slap the bedside table a few times before she finds the shears. She saws through the ropes at Mycroft's wrists and slides down to the bed. 

"Darling, are you all right?" Mycroft's dreamy state is broken, he's instantly back to his hyper-alert self, not hidden under his usual mask of silky confidence. 

"I have the worst headache, all of a sudden. Right behind my eye. I'm really dizzy. And cold. Think I'm going to be sick." Mycroft is now all business, undoing the rope at his ankles, checking Mary's pupils, feeling her forehead. He sits her up just a bit on a pillow and pours her a glass of water from the bedside carafe. He makes her smile at him, because there's no way it's a stroke but he always always always checks. 

By the time Mary has finished the glass of water, her nose is running like a faucet. Mary cries because it just isn't fair, to get sick when it's been just months since they've had any time together like this. She curses every snot-nosed child that spread germs to her perfect baby girl and then to her. 

"They lick everything. Everything! They put things in their mouths and then everything is a disease vector!" 

Mycroft wraps himself in Mary's dressing gown and telephones John, describing Mary's symptoms as she rails in the background. 

"Yep. That's what's going around. She'll be fine in four or five days," John assures him. Mycroft is loathe to pass this timeline along to Mary, who has moved on to cursing the children's parents while she shivers and wipes at her nose. "I take it she's accepting this with her usual grace? Give her an ibuprofen, plenty of fluids. I'll bring home some 7 Up. She likes that."

"It's just not fair," Mary says again, sounding despondent as Mycroft cradles her against his chest and strokes her hair. 

"I know, darling. We'll just skip to the aftercare. We can at least have a quiet afternoon together." He pulls off her boots and helps her out of her terribly impractical clothes and into sweatpants and her Crystal Palace Big Fun Run t-shirt. She helps him off with the corset and he pulls on his softest pajamas. 

Mycroft fetches a plate of cut fruit, cheese and crackers, a glass of juice, and Mary's phone with a pair of earbuds. He makes Mary promise not to listen to any murder podcasts, only nice things like The Allusionist. 

By the time John gets home with the baby, dinner, and a handful of waiting room celebrity magazines that Mary will never admit to liking, she is drowsing under a duvet mountain and Mycroft is reading, absently stroking her back. Mycroft helps John with the baby's dinner, bath, and pajamas while she screeches happily and does, in fact, try to put everything around her into her mouth. Though Mary claims to no longer be speaking to her, she still gives her the usual hundreds of kisses and cuddles before bed. 

Mary turns down proffered soup, declaring "I was promised a kebab so I shall have a kebab!" and that's that. She doesn't turn down the first of many bottles of 7 Up. 

"Ah, the mighty dominatrix, brought so low," John says while he and Mycroft do the dishes, only because he knows Mary will make a face at that word. "And my darling Mycroft having to bravely do without," which draws a well-deserved eye-roll from him. "Do you need me to tell you you've been a bad boy? Slap you about a bit?" John tugs playfully at the waistband of Mycroft's pajamas. He blushes gratifyingly and swats at John's hand, getting soap bubbles all over. 

"Ugh, you are terrible at this," Mary tells John from her seat at the table, "No wonder I have to do all of the household domination." 

"But you're ill! I have to pick up the slack!" John laughs and tries to grab Mycroft's wrists as he holds them far above where John can reach without hopping. 

Mary stands, only wobbling a little bit. "Right. If you're going to do it, you must do it right. Mycroft, fetch your umbrella and your corset. John, change into your black jeans and that shirt I like. No pants. No socks or shoes. Everyone meet up in my room because we'll be needing the big bed." John raises his eyebrows in astonishment to Mycroft, but he complies immediately.

When they arrive in Mary's room, she's seated, head high and regal, in her rocking chair, duvet around her shoulders like an ermine cape. Mycroft immediately senses the change in tone and goes down on one knee to present her with his umbrella. She takes it, holding it like a scepter. She's still in her sweatpants and t-shirt, fuzzy slippers on her feet, her eyes are watery, her nose is running, but she is absolutely now In Charge. 

"I am now Miss. You are now my boys." She points with the umbrella, "Sit. On the bed." So of course they do. She crosses her legs and raises an eyebrow. Mycroft twigs before John does. "Yes, Miss."

"You." She points the umbrella at John. "Undress him." She points at Mycroft.

"Yes, Miss." John turns to Mycroft and undoes the buttons of his pajamas with trembling hands. This is quite different to what he had imagined they got up to. Which he thought of as Not Necessarily His Thing. John's thing is usually just an informal fuck, a good time and a laugh with either or both of his two favorite people. He left the fancy stuff to the two of them on their own. But wow, Mycroft and Mary-- and even more so Mary like _this_ \-- is definitely his thing.

He is very aware of Mycroft's skin, close like this, and he rubs the back of his fingers against him. "No," Mary instructs, "you will do only what I ask you, no more, no less." 

When Mycroft is bare, John is instructed in how to corset him. By the time he has the lacing done down to the base of Mycroft's spine, there seems to be too much left over, feet of lacing still in his hands.

"Miss?" he asks Mary, feeling lost. 

"Tie it into a loose bow. I want the loops to frame his beautiful ass. You like to show your ass off to me, don't you, boy?" Mary tips her head to Mycroft and smiles.

"Yes, Miss." Mycroft's voice is changed, already sounding relaxed, rich, and satisfied.

"He smiles, you know, when he calls me Miss. Just a little, you'd only see it if you knew it was there. Do you know why that is?" She watches intently as John finishes the bow and arranges it just so.

"Why, Miss?" John asks, looking away from his work reluctantly.

"Because he's proud." She tips her head and smiles, thoughtful. "He's proud to be mine. He's proud to please me." At this, Mycroft nearly purrs and a shiver runs across his shoulders. John looks at him in wonder. Mary turns to address Mycroft, "I know that you only wish to serve me, boy, but today you will serve John, only because it pleases me."

Mycroft turns toward Mary, his face downturned, peering up at her through lowered lashes. "How shall I serve him, Miss?" Now John is shivering, at the sound of Mycroft's voice, throaty and molasses-rich.

"On your knees, facing him, so that I may admire your bottom," she says, playful. Again she gestures with the umbrella, indicating a spot on the floor just between John's legs. 

As Mycroft settles himself on the floor, tipping his ass for best viewing, John reaches to undo his jeans, but Mary shakes her head minutely so he drops his hands. 

"Worship his feet, boy." All of the lightness has left her voice, now. Mycroft kisses the top of John's feet ardently, eyes fluttered closed, ecstatic. He traces the delicate bones, dragging his lip down each one. He kisses each toe as he gently cradles the sole in his hands. John's heart pounds and he isn't even sure he knows why. The whatever-it-is, the _connection_ between Mycroft and Mary almost crackles. It fills the air in the room like ozone after a storm. 

Mary raps the tip of the umbrella sharply on the floor and Mycroft goes utterly still. "On the bed." Her voice is sharp command. Mycroft quickly arranges himself to lie flat at the center of Mary's big bed, bought specially to be big enough for all of them together. He's hard, hard and dripping, the head of his cock now bobbing just below the hem of the corset. Again John looks at him in wonder. He's barely been touched and he's almost gasping from arousal, his eyes on Mary, filled with adoration.

"Now." She points at John. "There are duties and obligations for those who are served. He offers his body to you. You must use it well and you must use it utterly. Do you understand me?"

John is nearly struck dumb until he remembers what he is to say. "Yes, Miss."

"Good. Now kiss and suck at his neck." John crawls on all fours up Mycroft's length and meets eyes that are shining and near-delirious. Mycroft tips his chin up, offering his neck. John dips down and kisses gently at his pulse, licks the sweat standing on his skin and nuzzles into the join between neck and shoulder. "Harder," Mary commands. He presses more of his weight into his kisses. " _Harder_." He kisses like he means to bruise, sucks and nips. Mycroft moans. 

"Good boy. Now suck at his nipples." John shifts down quickly and pulls an already-hard nipple into his mouth. This time, he doesn't have to be told, he immediately sucks hard, rough enough to elicit a lust-soaked whimper. He slips his hands under Mycroft's arms and grips the top of his shoulders. Mycroft's weak struggle against his hold draws a quiet chuckle from Mary. She directs John to lick at his skin, to kiss the ridge of his hip bones, to hold his bound waist firmly to keep him in place. John presses his full weight into pushing Mycroft to the bed. Mary moans. Every bit of Mycroft is flushed. John imagines he can feel the pressure of Mycroft's growing arousal bottled up, held tightly by his corset. 

"Isn't it beautiful, how he suffers for me?" Mary muses. John is kissing and licking his way up and down Mycroft's inner thighs now. When he looks up, John sees Mycroft sobbing silently, thrusting his cock up into nothing, his hands fisted into the sheets. It really is beautiful. 

"Please, Miss. Please," Mycroft begs, "please may he come in my mouth?" John blushes up to the roots of his hair. He's never heard Mycroft like this before. It's filthy and gorgeous. Mary is a genius. He looks to her, hopeful. 

"Oh, if he wishes it, I suppose it would be all right." Mary's voice is light again, almost teasing, but she is quite serious in how she directs John's actions. He is to keep his jeans on, opened wide at the front. He is to kneel above Mycroft's head. He is to press into Mycroft's mouth just so, his fist around his cock so that he won't press too deep, his thrusts are to be slow and firm. Her only concession is to allow Mycroft to reach up and grip John's hips as he thrusts. Mycroft's whimpers have increased to a near-constant keen around John's cock. 

Mary loves the rush of seeing them each so exquisitely tormented, cocks heavy and hard as iron, her playthings. Two men she loves beyond reason, madly in love with each other. She slides her fingers into the hot wet between her legs, strokes the slick over her clit and rubs into the hard ache. She allows herself to come, watching her boys, her beautiful boys. They don't even notice. 

Mary tells John that he may come the moment before he does, more so Mycroft will hear her say it than for John. Mycroft sucks gratefully as John grunts and moans and curses. When he is only gasping for breath, she says, "Good boy, John. Good work. As your reward, you may suck Mycroft's cock." John shuffles on his knees and leans down until he's on his forearms and wraps his mouth around Mycroft. Mary comes to stand next to the bed and allows Mycroft to suck her wet fingers. His face is slack with rapture and he comes in John's mouth with a groan. 

After, Mycroft instructs John in how to properly show thanks to Miss, by curling up on either side of her in bed, their heads on her shoulders, whispering to her how kind and lovely she is and accepting the sweet blessing of her arms around their shoulders and kisses pressed to their foreheads. 

Mary tells them that she needs rest, so could they please tuck her in and fuck off to their own beds, either together or separately. They could work it out among themselves which of them was to get up in the night with the baby and which of them was to take care of breakfast in the morning. 

So they did.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is clearly written by an American, hope you enjoyed it anyway. Written after being surprised when another character in the Sherlock universe was written as a corset-enjoyer when Mycroft is clearly our corset boy. Introducing important new podcast headcanon: Mary likes all of the murder podcasts, Mycroft loves The Allusionist because he loves words and erudition, and while it's not mentioned in this story, John loves My Brother My Brother and Me and thinks Monster Factory is fucking hilarious.


End file.
